


the show must go on

by enamuko



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Opera AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 04:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enamuko/pseuds/enamuko
Summary: Ferdinand von Aegir, a talented opera star on the rise, finds his life plagued by two dilemmas-- the first, a mysterious secret admirer showering him with gifts whose identity he struggles to solve, and the second a harsh critic and artistic patron of his opera company by the name of Hubert von Vestra whose every word seems designed to inspire raw hatred.





	1. opening night

**Author's Note:**

> This AU came out of nowhere and wouldn't stop bugging me until I wrote it.  
Be prepared for some pining gay nerds and a liberal use of dramatic irony.

Ferdinand sighed at the satisfying  _ click _ of his door shutting behind him as he leaned back against it. Though the cheers and cries of his adoring fans were sweeter to him than any song, they nevertheless rang in his head like a thousand church bells all at once, with exhaustion dragging his bones down and a headache pounding behind his eyes like a massive bass drum playing inside his head…

Which was not assisted by the way a heady, floral scent  _ immediately _ assaulted his senses.

It felt almost like walking into a perfume shop… Or perhaps a more accurate comparison would be a florist, just after a fresh delivery. It certainly  _ looked _ like one.

Ferdinand sighed— a tired sigh, but a pleased one, as well. The floral scent was… Somewhat overwhelming, but not unwelcome. It did make him almost dizzy as he all but dragged himself to the cushioned chair in front of his vanity, but as soon as he sat down the scent almost began to lull him to sleep…

A loud knock at his door startled him immediately out of his doze, followed by a muffled, “Ferdie? I’m coming in~”

He had no time to protest before Dorothea let herself into his room, though he would not have done so regardless, even if he wanted nothing more than to be alone and decompress at the moment…

“Oh my,” she gasped. “This all looks… A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

On that, he could absolutely agree.

“They must have been delivered during the show,” Ferdinand said with a frown. “They were certainly not here before I went on stage.”

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?” Dorothea stepped further into his dressing room and closed the door gingerly behind her. “This  _ has _ been going on for weeks, after all… I think at this point we could start making our own mulch.”

Ferdinand looked around his room and sighed. It was… Not much of an exaggeration.

Almost every available surface of Ferdinand’s dressing room was, after all,  _ covered _ in flowers.

“It is a lovely gesture,” he said. “If a bit… Ostentatious. But I cannot help but wonder who might be sending them.”

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” Dorothea leaned over to smell a beautiful bundle of gardenias that he could smell even from across the room. “I mean, they wouldn’t be a  _ secret _ admirer if they just came out and told you who they were, would they? And isn’t this so much more romantic?”

“I suppose…”

Ferdinand was hardly going to argue with that, but he felt as though he was going to lose his mind, being constantly faced with such a mystery and no clues…

The deliveries had started, as Dorothea had said, several weeks ago. He remembered because they had arrived the second night into the debut of their newest performance, a startling and experimental piece titled  _ Beyond the Edge of the World _ that the director had been certain would launch them from a mere tourist attraction to a household name.

It had been no surprise to any of the  _ performers _ that it had been an utter flop, which they would have been happy to tell the director had he thought to consult any of them, but regardless of the quality of the opera itself, their performance had been phenomenal. Ferdinand was particularly proud of his own performance. It had been his first leading role since joining the company, and despite the poor source material he had to work with, the critics had showered him with praise…

Well. Most of them.

But far more intriguing than the critics, was his secret admirer.

The first flowers had come  _ during _ his second performance; a beautiful bouquet of lavender roses in a shade so vibrant it almost looked like they had been painted rather than grown. Just the sight of them had made his heart skip a beat! In his time filling the bit parts and waiting for an opportunity to showcase his skills, Ferdinand had grown quite envious of the attention the more senior members of the company received from their fans— Dorothea and Manuela in particular never seemed to be without a pile of gifts and a mountain of fan mail and love letters. They deserved it, of course, but he couldn’t have helped but wish for a dedication like that…

And his secret admirer had been quick to deliver. Almost ridiculously so.

“Is it just me, or is he sending more and more each time?”

The only clue they had towards the identity of the mystery person— and their gender— was the little signed card that had started coming with each delivery the fourth time, likely to distinguish them from any other gifts Ferdinand might be receiving from adoring fans. The card had nothing more than the signature,  _ From your greatest admirer, The Count. _

“Yes…” Ferdinand sighed, perhaps a bit dramatically, but then, they  _ were _ both divas… A little drama was to be expected. “I certainly appreciate the gesture, but it would be nice to have counter space again.”

“Oh? So you wouldn’t mind me stealing some, then?”

Ferdidand sat up straight so suddenly it made his back protest, frowning at her from across the room. “You have more than enough of your own, I would wager.”

After all, men and women alike tripped over themselves constantly to shower Dorothea with adoration. Which Ferdinand felt she deserved, truly, but he still couldn’t help but wonder whether all of her admirers were  _ purely _ appreciative of her talents… (Not that he would ever say such a thing, as it would be more than rude for a gentleman such as himself!)

Dorothea laughed at his reaction as she wandered further into his dressing room, running her fingers over soft flower petals and stopping to admire the smell of the more fragrant bundles. “I knew you’d say something like that. Complain all you want, then; I know you love the attention.”

Ferdinand felt the heat rise in his face, and a glance at himself in his vanity mirror told him he was red from the ears downward. He had walked right into that and deserved the teasing smirk Dorothea was giving him over the top of a beautiful bouquet centered around some gorgeous stargazer lilies.

“He must be rich, if he can afford to send you all of these every night you perform…” Dorothea was talking mostly to herself, or at least Ferdinand assumed she was, since she had moved away again still holding the bouquet and he was slumping over to fall asleep in his chair. How she could be so much less exhausted than him after playing the role opposite his own, he simply could  _ not _ understand… Perhaps, he thought (or rather, he  _ hoped _ ) it would come to him with time and experience, not feeling utterly drained after each performance.

“Oh!”

Dorothea’s little exclamation once again startled him fully awake, when he would have otherwise been happy to doze off while she inventoried the gifts he had received and would take the time to appreciate properly after his nap.

“This is new…”

The sing-song lilt to her voice was enough to capture the rest of his attention, and when he looked to her, she was holding an envelope with his name written elegantly on the back in a gorgeous looping script.

Ferdinand felt his heart beat a little faster.

He was already out of his chair and all but snatching the envelope from Dorothea as she waggled it enticingly, acting like she was going to open it before he had the chance to. This time he wasn’t even concerned with seeming rude; he was far too excited to be worried about something like that.

Ferdinand turned the envelope over in his hand. The script on the back was in the same handwritten style as the little cards that came with the flowers, though he could have hardly imagined who else it might be from. Though he was proud of his own skills and was sure they would catapult him to true stardom one day, he’d not yet had a chance to truly showcase himself and gather the adoring fans that Dorothea (a diva since she could be called a girl rather than a woman) or Manuela (who had already been a star when Ferdinand had been but a babe) had.

He was certain he had silent supporters, but for now? His Count was the only one who would be so bold…

_ To the most noble Ferdinand von Aegir _ , the letter began, written on paper so thick and creamy that Ferdinand could have pulled off his gloves and run his fingers across it all day, with handwriting so perfect and delicate her would not have been surprised to find its author a calligrapher by trade…

All thoughts to ground himself from the way his heart fluttered at such a simple but flattering address.

(It was the excitement, surely!)

_ To the most noble Ferdinand von Aegir, _

_ Though I have sent many tokens of my unending esteem, I must confess I have been too flustered by the idea of writing to you, not to mention afraid you might think it too forward of me. However, after seeing your most recent performance, I simply couldn’t resist any longer. _

_ Your voice is as beautiful as it is powerful. I was appalled to learn that your talents had been wasted for so long, when they took my breath away. Hearing you sing for the first time was like having spent the rest of my life with cotton wadded in my ears and finally being able to hear clearly. To call it a revelation would be selling it short. _

_ Even more forward of me, while I have the courage gathered, is to tell you that I couldn’t take my eyes off of you from the moment you stepped onto the stage. You’ve captivated me in every way possible, in a way no one ever has. Your beauty, your grace, and your talent have stolen my heart, and if I could only spend the rest of my life admiring you from afar, I could die a happy man. To miss a chance to see you perform would be a great pain to me, so know that I will always be in the crowd, watching you blossom upon the stage like the beautiful blooms I have most painstakingly selected for you. _

_ Your most fervent admirer, _ _   
_ _ The Count _

Ferdinand felt his hands trembling, his breath coming to him short and unfulfilling, but it all felt quite far away, as though he were watching himself from outside of his own body. If he had thought he was red before, from Dorothea’s teasing, well… It was nothing compared to now, because it felt like he had caught fire under his skin.

Calling the mystery gifter his secret admirer had been in jest, more than anything, just because of the sheer volume of flowers he always sent. But sending flowers to an admired performer was hardly unusual, and Ferdinand could remember, in his childhood, frantically attempting to collect enough pocket change to gift one to Manuela, before his dream of singing alongside her on stage had been anything close to reality… There was nothing  _ inherently _ romantic in the gesture, though the other divas considered the occasional love letter or marriage proposal to be a regular thing, and never paid them much heed.

_ “They never really mean it,” _ Dorothea had said once, with a frown and a shake of her head.  _ “Or, if they do, they’re the sort you want to stay away from. Who confesses love or proposes to a woman they’ve only ever seen on stage?” _

Ferdinand understood the logic behind that, of course, but… The letter still made his heart race so fast he thought he might faint. Nothing felt at all disingenuous about it, and the sender was too shy to even reveal his name, despite his beautiful words, as though he was afraid he  _ would _ take it the wrong way…

“Oooooooh. He writes just as beautifully as he picks flowers, I see.”

Ferdinand nearly jumped out of his chair. He’d been so absorbed in the letter that he hadn’t seen Dorothea coming up behind him, putting her hands on the chair’s headrest, and peering over his shoulder to read. He only narrowly dodged the urge to swat at her like an annoying fly.

“Dorothea!” He furrowed his brow, and would have flushed angrily if he hadn’t already been beet red from the letter itself. “It’s quite  _ rude _ of you to peer over my shoulder reading my  _ private mail _ like that, you know.”

His reprimand lost some of its sting because he could hardly keep himself from stammering through it, he was so flustered. His hands were even still shaking, and he folded the letter— carefully, oh so carefully— and set it aside so he could at least cross his arms and make it less obvious.

“Sorry, Ferdie,” Dorothea said without  _ sounding _ at all sorry. “You just looked so adorably flustered, I couldn’t help but try to sneak a peek at what was getting under your skin. Although I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed that it wasn’t something more  _ racy _ .”

“Dorothea!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Again, he called her sincerity into question when she broke out into a fit of giggles, broken up by an admittedly adorable snort. “I can tell you’re getting cranky, so I’ll let you get your rest… But we’re  _ definitely _ going to talk more about this later, got it? Ooh, Manuela’s going to be  _ beside herself _ when I tell her…”

Dorothea was still chattering, mostly to herself, when she left the room and closed his door behind her. No doubt she was going to do exactly what she said, go off to find Manuela and tell her about the latest development in his secret admirer saga, which meant he was more than likely due for an irritated Manuela bursting into his room in a similar fashion to complain about it despite getting dozens of love letters and pieces of adoring fan mail with every performance…

Though none so beautiful or genuine as this one, he was sure. His heart began fluttering in his chest again, just thinking about it.

The Count thought he was beautiful…

The compliments of his talents were, of course,  _ most _ welcome and appreciated. To hear someone else so clearly understand how criminal it was that his talents were being wasted before now was gratifying. But to be called beautiful? Well, Ferdinand was well aware of how talented he was, but beautiful… Ferdinand was not a self-conscious or insecure man when it came to his looks, but human beauty was a far more subjective creature…

Lacking anywhere else to comfortably settle thanks to the mountain of flowers taking up most of the room (and being more than used to a quick nap on whatever surface was available), Ferdinand leaned back in his chair, intent on doing what Dorothea had suggested and  _ resting _ until whatever rude interruption was coming next. Rest was just as important as practice and dedication, after all, lest he exhaust himself and wear out his voice.

As he settled in for his usual post-performance rest, his eyes lingered on the letter and on the thick envelope with his name written on it so beautifully, until his eyes were simply too heavy to remain open any longer and he drifted off with the gorgeous words still echoing in his mind...


	2. setting the stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand is troubled by the machinations of a particular critic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a minute huh?  
This is pretty accurate for how long it takes me to update things tho so adjkwakjdawljd  
Anyway! Enjoy!

“Good morning, everybody! Guess what? Our reviews are in!”

Ferdinand sighed at the announcement. Next to him at the same table, Manuela groaned and attempted to bury her face further into her arms in solidarity. Though he imagined her reasons were different from his own, and had much more to do with the terrible hangover she had been complaining about only moments before in tandem with Dorothea’s unwarranted morning enthusiasm.

Of course, Ferdinand could appreciate optimism and a can do attitude as much as anyone. But he also liked to consider himself rather astute when it came to pattern recognition. And reviews? Simply did not warrant that level of enthusiasm.

“Oh, come on,” Dorothea said, joining them at their table and giving Manuela’s head an encouraging pat. “We blew them away last night! Don’t you want to hear all of them singing our praises, like always?”

“All but _one_,” Ferdinand replied bitterly.

“Oh, not this again,” Manuela groaned. Or he assumed that was what she said; it was hard to tell precisely, muffled as it was by the table and her folded arms. She raised her head to give him a stern look— one that looked much meaner than he thought was intended, but he would gladly lay the blame at the feet of her pounding headache for that. “Ferdinand, would you give it a rest already? If you can’t handle one nasty critic, you’re in the wrong business.”

“She’s right, Ferdie,” Dorothea said with a sympathetic sigh, although she was still smiling. The pat she gave him on _his_ head felt much more condescending than the one she had given Manuela. “It’s just a fact of life in this business. Besides, we both know there’s _someone_ out there who _really_ appreciates your talents, and that’s all that matters, right?”

She winked at him, and Ferdinand felt his face heat and go red as he grasped her meaning all too easily. Despite her poor mood and obvious pain, Dorothea’s comment managed to attract Manuela’s attention and interest, as she perked up and made a small ‘ooh’ sound.

“A new development on the secret admirer front?” she asked, and before Ferdinand could take control of the story, mostly by taking it in an entirely different direction, Dorothea got ahead of him.

“He sent him a letter,” she said. “A _very_ sweet one. Really got our Ferdie all hot and bothered, didn’t it, Ferdie?”

“Dorothea, I wish you would not make such a fuss about it,” he said, trying for stern, but the whine he couldn’t quite keep out of his voice made him sound much more like a pouting child. “It was simply an admiring letter from an infatuated fan, nothing more. And nothing the two of you don’t receive on a daily basis.”

“Oh, but Ferdinand, it’s your _first_! That makes it something special!” Manuela winked at him, and he could practically see the sparkles in her eyes. Clearly it was excitement enough to distract her from her misery…

“Even if it wasn’t, I have to say, I’ve _never_ had an ‘infatuated fan’ send me an entire flower’s shop worth of flowers before.”

“He _didn’t_!” Manuela shrieked with laughter, her pain apparently forgotten _entirely_ if she was not making her own head ache with such a shrill-high pitched noise!

“Dorothea is exaggerating!” he said quickly, feeling his face flush even _more_, if that was even possible. The tips of his ears felt as though they were burning…

“Not by _much_,” Dorothea said. “Come on, Ferdie, I don’t know why you’re so embarrassed. If anything you should be _basking_ in it.”

“It’s just first time jitters, Dorothea; I’m sure our Ferdinand will have no trouble getting used to all the attention soon enough.”

They laughed, and Ferdinand simply frowned. Not because of the good-natured ribbing; he felt absolutely no shame in feeling like he deserved to be given attention and praise worthy of his skills and accomplishments. No, he frowned because despite his assurances that it was nothing more than an infatuated fan, he…

He wasn’t sure that he _wanted_ it to be.

Before he could get too far down that dangerous line of thought, Dorothea laying the paper she’d been flapping about moments ago out on the table reminded him of what he’d originally been annoyed with.

“Alright, then,” he grumbled, gesturing to the paper. “I suppose we may as well get it over with.”

“Wasn’t asking your permission, Ferdie, but thank you.” Dorothea authoritatively cleared her throat as she opened the paper and flipped to the entertainment section, making a big show of folding it and holding it up near her face though her eyesight was crystal clear.

“_A radiant performance from the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s rising stars,_” she quoted from one, giving a little wiggle in her seat. “_Exemplary talent in the form of Dorothea Arnault and Ferdinand von Aegir show a promising future for Enbarr’s opera scene, their show opening to a full house even on its fourth consecutive showing…”_

Despite himself, Ferdinand perked up at that. When he had first expressed an interest in becoming a diva, his father had been strictly against it; it wasn’t _proper_ for someone of status, he said, to parade one’s self on stage in such a fashion. Then, when that argument had not swayed him in the slightest, he’d turned to telling Ferdinand that the opera was a dying art.

Ferdinand had not believed him then, and even now, seeing that the Mittlefrank Opera Company— once the most famous and illustrious opera company in all of Fodlan— had fallen from its fantastic heights, he still did not believe him. He could see it in the full crowds their shows opened to, audiences no longer comprised simply of the nobility wishing to show their wealth and status but also common folk there to simply admire the artistry.

It was nice to hear people acknowledging his role in the matter.

“Oh, here’s a good one… _The Mittlefrank Opera Company rises like a phoenix from the ashes, blending the experienced talent of the lavishly beautiful Manuela Casagranda with the fresh voices of its new young rising stars…_”

Ferdinand had a feeling Dorothea had added the ‘lavishly beautiful’ part as a personal embellishment, but as he certainly did not disagree, he let it slide.

The kind words were almost— _almost_ enough to make him forget why he had objected in the first place. And it might have passed him by entirely had Dorothea not made a point of folding the paper, setting it in front of her, and saying, “See, Ferdie? Not so bad, was it?”

“Don’t _patronize_ me, Dorothea,” he said, and frowned. “Just tell me what nonsense he’s written _this_ time.”

“Ferdinand…” Manuela groaned, but there was a tone of warning in her voice as well, and she was frowning just as hard back at him. “You were _just_ saying that you didn’t want to hear it. Why can’t you just take the compliments?”

“I am not a child, Manuela!” he said, and ignored the way she muttered under her breath ‘you’re certainly acting like one right now’. “I do _not_ need to be shielded from unkind words. Just read it, Dorothea.”

Manuela sighed. “You know he won’t stop complaining until you do…”

“Alright…”

With evident trepidation, Dorothea picked the paper back up and unfolded it, returning to the reviews. She cleared her throat, looking over to Ferdinand with a raised eyebrow as if asking him if he _really_ wanted her to continue.

He was tired of her stalling, and glared at her until he assumed she got the message.

“_The Mittlefrank Opera Company continues to show an almost applaudable level of dedication to running the most classic pieces of operatic theatre ever written into the ground, without a single ounce of creativity or experimentation._

_Though in recent months a few attempts have been made to branch out in new and interesting directions, the lack of dedication to anything other than pandering to the lowest common denominator has caused this once great Company to become little more than a constant rehashing of tired material, buoyed only by the moderate talent of its stars._

_In their efforts to reach a wider audience, the Mittlefrank Opera Company has washed away any possible vibrancy from its performances—”_

“How can they even allow this man to continue _writing_ these?!”

Ferdinand had not meant to interrupt, but he could not sit there and listen to even one more word of the drivel Dorothea was reading! His hands clenched into fists on the table, and he wanted nothing more than to allow himself to lapse into an angry outburst…

“See, Ferdinand? What did I tell you? If all you’re ever going to do is get angry whenever these come up, _stop_ going out of your way to read his reviews!”

Manuela reached over to give his ear a firm tug, which was enough to startle him out of his rage with a small yelp, if only because he had to stop to rub the tender lobe she had just yanked on so suddenly!

“Manuela! That was uncalled for!”

“She’s right, though,” Dorothea said. This time, she didn’t fold up the paper; she tore it in half once, again, until it was in pieces too small to be recovered. “You _really_ need to stop getting yourself so worked up about things like this. It’s not good for your complexion; you’ll give yourself wrinkles!”

Even though he _knew_ she was only saying that to deliberately agitate him, Ferdinand could not stop his hand from flying to his face to press against his (perfectly smooth, thank you very much!) cheek.

Dorothea laughed, clearly mocking him, and he could still feel Manuela frowning at him, and Ferdinand felt like they were being _very_ unfair about the whole thing!

“It’s not simply that his reviews are negative,” Ferdinand said, ignoring the way Dorothea sighed and Manuela groaned. Well, if they didn’t like it, too bad; he deserved a chance to explain himself! “I will even admit that _some_ of his criticisms are _occasionally_ valid.”

Ferdinand recalled the review that he had given of that first performance he’d had a chance to star in, the one that had garnered the attention of his mysterious Count; though he had been just as agitated by his rudeness and complete lack of respect, he could not ignore the fact that he had been perfectly right to say that experimentation was all well and good, but you actually had to be trying to make _good art_ at the same time or else all you ended up with was a mess that was different from everyone else’s mess.

“What I take issue with is the fact that the man _clearly_ has _no _respect at all for the art. Even when he makes _valid_ points, he couches them in generic complaints and insults that add nothing to his criticisms!”

“Oh, Ferdie, that’s what people _want_ to read,” Dorothea said, shaking her head. “All those nice reviews? Those aren’t _fun_. They want someone to be downright _nasty_.”

“Then he is a hypocrite,” Ferdinand replied without pause. “Claiming that _we_ pander to the ‘lowest common denominator’ while writing such things simply for the sake of popularity!”

“Save your breath, Dorothea.” Manuela got up from her chair, patting Dorothea on the shoulder as she passed by behind her. “You should know by now that he’s only going to hear what he wants to hear. Now, dear, how does a cup of tea sound?”

“Oh, if you’re offering, it sounds _lovely_.”

Ferdinand huffed at the way they dismissed him so readily, but perhaps it _was_ for the best; they were right about one thing, after all.

Worrying about _that man_ was not worth his time and energy. Particularly when he could be using that time and energy to do something far more productive than griping about him;

He could _prove him wrong_.

Though Ferdinand did not agree with his father in the _slightest_ that the opera was a dying art, he did have to admit— the Mittlefrank Opera Company was not what it had once been.

Oh, he could talk for hours about how the art form was constantly evolving, about the wondrous things being done to take it to new levels, but the truth was that it was first and foremost an entertainment industry, and the purpose of an industry was profit.

Once, attending the opera had been a mark of status, and it had been almost _expected_ of a wealthy family to regularly be in attendance. Ferdinand could clearly remember a childhood spent watching the stories unfold on stage, being mesmerized by the singing and dancing, in particular Manuela and her sword dance…

Things had changed since Ferdinand’s childhood, however. Or at least they had in Enbarr. The noble elite no longer valued artistic endeavours as they once had. Where opera— both its creation and its performance— had once been primarily supported by wealthy patrons, now it depended on the sale of tickets not only to the nobility but to virtually anyone who had the money to attend…

The upside, if Ferdinand were called upon to find one, was that there was far more value in both talent and entertainment than there had once been. Productions were grander, or as grand as they could get on a shoestring budget; a talented performer was highly sought after, as a particularly favoured diva could draw in massive crowds to even the dullest of shows.

The downside was precisely what that _horrid_ critic had said, although he had said it in the most shallow and hypocritical way possible; it was easy for a company to stagnate, focusing on nothing but drawing in the crowd night after night, sacrificing potential masterpieces for more popular works that were guaranteed to sell well. And even when experimentation _was_ permitted, it seemed to value shock and awe over true substance; the show that had catapulted Ferdinand into his current state of minor fame practically overnight had been one such a performance. The pacing was abysmal, the story nonsensical where it attempted to exist at all, and it put an unnecessary strain on the performers in the form of ridiculously complicated songs and dances that didn’t even _sound_ good.

Honestly, considering what he and Dorothea had been forced to do in order to get the show to go as seamlessly as it had? They _deserved_ their popularity.

“I hear we have an important visitor tonight.”

Manuela stage whispered that to him as though sharing an important secret as she caught him on his way from his dressing room to the director’s office, hoping to discuss a few suggestions he was sure would catapult them out of the red.

“Oh?” He was in a surprisingly good mood despite their conversation that same morning. After all, he had resolved that the best way for him to rub that man’s nose in it would be to simply prove him utterly wrong by his own talent and hard work. That was precisely why he’d spent the rest of the day labouring over his suggestions for what could be done to increase their popularity back to what it had once been. “What sort of visitor?”

“Someone looking to throw around a lot of money, from what I hear.”

Manuela slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow that he offered her as they walked.

“Not someone looking to buy the opera house? Or the company?” Ferdinand’s blood ran cold at the idea. Their current director was hardly ideal, being motivated by profit and only the barest understanding of the art form beyond its ability to turn one, but it could be so much worse…

“No. A _patron_.”

_That_ made Ferdinand perk up.

“The director said he should be here any minute,” Manuela said, but Ferdinand was too distracted to pay her much mind, though he knew he was being terribly rude. A _patron_… Not an investor, hoping to gain from them, but a true patron? Someone who wished to use their wealth to _truly_ support and advance the arts?

It was almost too good to be true…

He could not let such good news distract him from his original task, however… Though his own proposals felt flat and unnecessary if what Manuela said was true. Still, there was no point in letting his hard work go to waste!

Arm in arm, he and Manuela headed for the director’s office, chatting amicably. A few stage hands greeted them, but as there was not a show that night, the opera house had only the bare minimum staff needed to run things for practice and rehearsals.

He was given pause when they arrived at his door and he heard _two_ voices coming from within, neither loud enough to be identified but both masculine. One he assumed was the director. He had no idea who the other could be…

“Do you think that could be him?” Manuela hissed, again louder than he assumed she meant to be. He leaned in close, cupping his hand around his mouth to _properly_ quiet himself.

“If you wait out here, I can pop in and see…”

After all, he had a perfectly acceptable reason to be there, and he could not lie— He was quite curious…

Manuela made a little interested noise and winked at him conspiratorially. She unhooked her arm from his and slinked off, gesturing in a way he didn’t_ quite_ understand but he _assumed_ meant she wanted him to tell her what he found out…

When she had slipped away, he turned to the door and knocked firmly. The voices inside paused, and for a moment Ferdinand debated simply turning around and leaving, when…

“Come in.”

Ferdinand opened the door and stepped inside, saying, “Pardon my intrusion, I hope I am not interrupting—”

And then he stopped.

And stared.

“Ah, Ferdinand. Just the man I wanted to see. Come in, come in.”

The director was sitting behind his desk, while his guest was sitting in front— And looking at him with undisguised, smug amusement from over the coffee mug he leisurely sipped from.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with our newest rising star. Ferdinand, have you met—”

“Count Vestra. Yes, we’ve met.”

Ferdinand knew he was being quite rude. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently, and he was caring progressively less and less as the day went on. It was almost as though the Goddess was trying to test him, _personally_.

“Good afternoon, Sir Aegir.”

Actually, no. The very existence of Hubert von Vestra was _proof_ that the Goddess wanted to torment him.

“_Lord_ Aegir, if you please.”

“Oh? I had thought you had renounced your title when you took to the stage.”

“It would be the first _I’ve_ heard of it.” Ferdinand stood in the entranceway, arms crossed over his chest, refusing to step any further into the room. “One _can_ be a noble and pursue a career at the same time. I would have thought you of all people could understand that.”

“Hm. Perhaps.”

And _that_ was perhaps the most infuriating thing about Hubert von Vestra; the fact that he was always so _ludicrously_ smug, you simply couldn’t have a proper conversation with him!

It took him a moment, so blinded by his frustration was he, to realize that the director was glaring at him from behind his desk.

“Ferdinand,” he said firmly. “Count Vestra is our _guest_. And a very important one, at that.”

Had it been anyone else— _Literally_ anyone— Ferdinand would have been beside himself with embarrassment at how he’d acted on impulse, the moment the director looked at him like that. He was not a respectable man, reminding him in both demeanour and countenance of his father, but he _was_ his employer and the look he was giving him was one of both anger and disappointment.

However, if he expected him to apologize to _Hubert von Vestra_, of all people, he was _sorely_ mistaken.

“Oh? Here to deliver one of your trademark _scathing critiques_, are you?”

It was the only reason he could imagine him ‘gracing’ them with his presence— Aside from a performance, of course.

Hubert von Vestra never missed one of their performances. And he never failed to write a maddening review the next day that had Ferdinand boiling out of his skin while Dorothea and Manuela chided him for putting himself through such unnecessary torment.

It had been bad enough listening to the drivel he called _critique_ coming out of Dorothea’s mouth that morning; to see his smug face in person was the final nail in the coffin of Ferdinand having any chance at having a good day.

“Actually, I’ve come to offer my assistance.” Hubert slid past his venomous barb without missing a beat. Ugh. The way he slithered through a conversation like a snake, avoiding anything he disliked and refusing to open _himself _to any criticism despite his choice of profession…

Had he been a lesser man, Ferdinand would have stormed out of the room.

As if sensing that Ferdinand was about to say something, the director cut in with, “We’re _lucky_ to have Count Vestra offering our Company a _significant_ amount of financial support in these… Trying times. I _hope_ you and the other performers will express your gratitude _properly_.”

Which Ferdinand was well aware was code for ‘be nice or you’re going to be in big trouble’, but he was too dumbstruck to care about that as he turned to Hubert and said,

“_You_? You’re our patron? Why in the world would _you_ want to do something like _that_?”

“Why, it’s obvious, really.” The look he gave him from beneath that ridiculous fringe of his, along with his almost mournful sigh that he knew was meant _full well_ to signify that it was almost pitiful of him not to realize whatever he was about to say next, did nothing to alleviate Ferdinand’s desire to turn on his heel and walk straight out of the room before he did or said something he could not take back. “I didn’t do it for _gratitude_, so don’t concern yourself with such a thing, Director. I did it simply because I see _potential_ in this Company to be as great as it once was, when I was a child. Without the _constraints _of monetary gain, I’m hoping to see it truly flourish.”

“We hardly need your help for such a thing!”

“Ferdinand, can I speak with you _privately_ for a moment?”

The director rose from behind his desk, and Ferdinand realized at that moment that he had… Pushed things too far, perhaps. Had it been the tone of his voice, or the volume perhaps? He was simply so _aghast_ at the idea of their Company being beheld to _Hubert von Vestra_, the most notoriously difficult to please and _rudest_ critic in all of Enbarr, that he could not restrain himself…

He was led roughly by the elbow into the hallway, the director closing the door behind them so Hubert could not hear the conversation they were having.

“What was _that_? Damnit, Ferdinand, you’re usually my most charming performer!”

“Director, with all due respect, I simply cannot stand by and watch our Company fall into the pocket of such a man. His money may spend, but his _complete_ lack of respect for the _art_—”

“The ‘art’ won’t exist if there’s no opera house and no opera company, Ferdinand! We might be pulling in crowds _now_, but that doesn’t make up for two seasons of a nearly empty theater and all the losses we took in that time! So if you want to still _have_ a job by the end of _this_ season, I suggest you use all that fancy ‘noble’ training of yours to _play nice_.”

The director turned to head back into his office. Ferdinand tried to follow, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when the door shut— No, practically _slammed_ in his face.

He was about to raise his hand to knock— But, no. It was clear to him that the director did not want to listen to what he had to say, so why waste his breath on the argument that the Vestra fortune was certainly not worth whatever cruelty he planned to inflict on them? 

Taking a moment to collect himself with a few deep breaths, Ferdinand thought instead on what his next actions could be. He quickly put the idea of convincing the director not to accept Hubert’s patronage out of his mind; while Ferdinand could not speak to his talent as a reviewer, the Vestra fortune was old money, and large enough to tempt a far more upstanding individual than their director.

No, he had no chance of putting a stop to this. But it could not be said that Ferdinand von Aegir was a man who would back down from a challenge. It would simply mean redoubling and refocusing his efforts— not only on his original plans for the Company, which he would now have to work towards without the assistance or approval of the director, but also on his efforts to impress upon Hubert von Vestra how utterly _wrong_ he was about the art as a whole.

It would be a lot of work, but where Ferdinand had felt defeated moments before, now he felt uplifted once more. If anyone could come out on top of such a challenge, it was Ferdinand von Aegir. Just as one of the reviews Dorothea had read that morning had said, he would rise like a phoenix from the ashes and drag the Mittelfrank Opera Company to glory with him no matter how many obstacles stood in his way!

First, though— first he had to find Manuela and tell her the _dreadful_ news. And then find Dorothea and tell her as well, for good measure, and to prove to her that it had not been overreacting on his part at _all_ when he had said that Hubert von Vestra’s dreadful reviews would be the end of them all. And _then_ he would have to find himself a good, strong cup of tea— something to soothe his shattered nerves, invigorate him, and chase away the dreadful headache that speaking to _that man_ for only a few _moments_ had given him.

After that, though? Straight to work without a moment to spare.


End file.
